Attitude on the phone

 Attitude on the phone

Aug 22, 2022

This is what I remember back in 2022 at the start of the school year. I wrote an outline then and used it to write this time when I got a punishment spanking.

0The school hallway is quiet, the morning stillness a fragile bubble before the storm of students arrives. I’m at my desk, reviewing a lesson plan for next week’s poetry unit, when my phone buzzes. It’s him.

Where are the electrolyte drink packets?

The text is simple, innocuous. But my mood, coiled tight from a sleepless night and the hormonal tides that seem to rule my body lately, twists it into something else. I feel a spike of irritation. He’s home. I’m here, prepping. It feels like a demand. A trivial demand.

Instead of texting back, I call. My voice, when he answers, is sharp. Defensive.

“They’re in the pantry, top shelf, left side. Where they always are.”

He’s silent for a beat. Then his voice comes, calm but confused. “Lisa? I was just wondering. I’m going to work out since I don’t have to be at work until ten.”

The explanation, so reasonable, feels like an accusation. He has time. I’m here working. The irrational anger blooms, hot and sudden.

“Of course,” I snap, sarcasm dripping from my words. “Sorry I slipped up and didn’t have them laid out for you.”

“Lisa,” he says, his tone shifting, a warning note entering the calm. “Watch your tone.”

But I dig in. The guilt from my outburst is already beginning to pool in my stomach, but I push against it, fueling my defiance. “What tone? The tone of someone who has a job to do?”

“I’m giving you another warning,” he says, his voice dropping lower, firmer. It’s the voice that precedes a decision. The voice that means this is serious.

And I snap. “Maybe I don’t need your warnings!”

The line goes quiet for a long moment. I can hear my own breathing, ragged in the silent classroom.

“We will talk about your attitude this evening,” he states, each word precise and final. “I love you.”

Then he hangs up.

The click is a physical blow. I sit there, phone clutched in my hand, staring at the stupid worksheet on my desk. The instant regret is a flood, drowning the petty anger. Stupid hormones. Stupid stress. Stupid me.

My fingers fly over the screen, typing out a long, rambling apology. I explain the stress, the sleeplessness, the irrational spike of emotion. I tell him I’m sorry, that I love him, that I don’t know why I said those things.

His reply comes a minute later. Simple. Direct. I forgive you.

The words are a relief, but they don’t erase the heavy, guilty knot in my chest. They feel like a pardon, not an absolution. The school day passes in a blur. I teach, I manage, I smile. But underneath, I’m waiting. Knowing what talking about my attitude truly means in our private language.

When I get home, the house is quiet. Our daughters are at a friend’s house for dinner. He’s in the living room, sitting on the couch, waiting. He doesn’t smile. His expression is solemn, thoughtful.

“Come here, Lisa.”

I walk to him, my school bag dropping by the door. My heart is pounding again, that familiar, frantic rhythm. This isn’t the playful anticipation of a maintenance spanking for fun. This is different. This is consequence.

“We talked about your attitude,” he says, his voice quiet but carrying absolute authority. “The disrespect. The sarcasm. The snapping. That is not how we communicate. That is not how a team operates.”

I nod, my eyes already filling with tears. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

“I forgave you,” he says. “But forgiveness doesn’t erase the action. It doesn’t rebuild the trust that was frayed. Actions have consequences. For us, this is the consequence.”

He stands up. “Strip.”

The command is clear, cold. There’s no playful invitation, no for us. This is for me. For my correction. The guilt in my chest expands, but it also… simplifies. This is what I need. This is the price, and I will pay it willingly.

I don’t hesitate. My fingers undo the buttons of my blouse. I slide it off my shoulders. My skirt, my stockings, my bra, my panties. Each item falls to the floor, a pile of my professional day dissolving into a naked, vulnerable present. I stand before him, shivering slightly, not from cold, but from exposure.

He sits back down on the couch. He doesn’t guide me gently. He points to the space over his lap. “Assume your position.”

I move, lowering myself across his knees. The denim of his jeans is rough against my thighs. My bare bottom is exposed to the cool room air, then to the warm, solid presence of him beneath me. The position is achingly familiar, but the context makes it feel entirely new. This isn’t a gift. This is a reckoning.

His hand rests on my lower back, holding me firmly. There is no preamble. No loving words. No countdown.

The first spank lands.

It is hard. A solid, brutal thwack that seems to echo in the silent house. The sting is immediate, sharp, a bright line of pain that cuts through my guilt and leaves only sensation. I gasp, my body jerking instinctively, but his hand on my back holds me down.

He doesn’t speak. He just spanks.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

Each impact is a deliberate, measured event. They are not playful. They are not for connection. They are for correction. The pain builds quickly, layer upon layer, a fierce, burning heat that spreads across my entire rear. It’s deeper, more intense than our playful sessions. There’s no pleasure woven into it yet. It’s just pure, focused, painful discipline.

I don’t fight it. The guilt I feel melts into the physical punishment, becoming one with it. I deserve this. I earned this. Each spank feels like a direct answer to my snappish words, my sarcastic tone. My body accepts them, my muscles tightening, my breath coming in short, sharp cries.

He doesn’t stop. The rhythm is relentless, methodical. The spanks come faster, overlapping, a storm of sharp, stinging blows that make me writhe and moan. My tears start, hot and unbidden, streaming down my face and onto the couch cushion below. I cry not from the pain alone, but from the shame, the relief, the sheer necessity of this.

The heat becomes unbearable. A roaring fire across my skin. I’m begging now, not for him to stop, but for… something. Release. Absolution.

“Please,” I sob, the word ragged. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t answer. His hand just continues its work, spanking, spanking, spanking. The sound of his palm against my skin is a steady, punishing percussion. My world narrows to that sound, that sting, that burning ache. My thoughts dissolve into a white haze of submission and repentance.

Then, he stops.

The sudden absence of impact is a shock. I’m panting, weeping, my skin a uniform, blazing crimson. I hear the soft, ominous click of wood on wood.

The hairbrush.

He picks it up from the side table. The same solid, wooden one. He places it against my skin. The cool, unyielding surface is a brutal contrast to the fire he’s built. I shudder, a fresh wave of sobs shaking me.

“This is for the defiance,” he says, his voice finally breaking the silence. It’s calm, but it carries a final, terrible weight. “For digging in when you were warned.”

He lifts it and brings it down.

The first stroke is a thud that feels like it cracks through my bones. The dense, heavy ache is profound, overwhelming. It reverberates through my pelvis, my spine, my skull. I scream, a short, sharp sound of pure, undiluted agony.

He doesn’t pause. He brings it down again. Another thud. Then another.

The brush covers more area than his hand. The pain is less about surface sting and more about deep, structural shock. It feels like he’s rearranging my flesh, compacting the fire into a dense, molten core. Each impact is a monumental, shuddering event. I beg, I plead, my words incoherent.

“No, please! It’s too much! I’ll be good, I promise! Sir, please!”

He ignores my pleas. The brush falls again, and again, and again. I lose count. I lose sense. I am just a body being punished, a mind being emptied through pain. My tears are a river. My body trembles uncontrollably on his lap. The heat in my bottom is nuclear, a radiating furnace of pain that feels eternal.

When he finally sets the brush aside, I am broken. A limp, weeping, shuddering mess. My skin is not just red; it’s a deep, angry crimson, hot and swollen. I can feel the raised, tender patterns where the brush landed. I lie across his lap, utterly spent, my face wet, my hair matted to my cheeks with tears.

His hands come to me then. Not to spank. To hold.

He rubs my back, my shoulders, slowly, gently. Then his hands move to my punished bottom. He doesn’t knead it worshipfully like before. He simply holds the scorched curves, his palms warm against the raging heat. The touch is almost soothing, a stark contrast that makes me cry harder.

He helps me shift, turning me so I can curl into his arms on the couch. I come blindly, collapsing against his chest. He pulls me close, wrapping me tightly. My sore, devastated bottom rests gingerly against the cushions.

He holds me for a long time, just letting me cry. My sobs slow, then subside into quiet, shaky breaths. The room is silent except for our breathing.

“Lisa,” he says softly, his voice back to the tone I know, the tone of my husband, my lover. “We are a team. Always. When you are stressed, when you are hormonal, when you are overwhelmed… you come to me. You talk to me. You don’t snap at me. You don’t disrespect me. That attitude is not acceptable.”

I nod against his chest, my face buried. “Yes, Sir.”

“But I love you,” he says, the words firm and absolute. “No matter what. This was to remind you of the rules. Of our rules. It was to clear the air. To make sure we start fresh.”

He kisses my forehead, a gentle press. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “I understand. I’m sorry. I’ll be better.”

“You already are,” he murmurs, his arms tightening around me. “You took your correction beautifully. You accepted it. That’s the first step.”

Tomorrow is Love Making After - If this offends you please do not read